


Haunted to be wanted

by dishonestdreams



Series: 100 Fandoms [7]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Gen, M/M, Mind Control, Possession, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-02
Updated: 2020-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-12 21:15:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22985221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dishonestdreams/pseuds/dishonestdreams
Summary: The man staring back at Clint from the mirror is a mess. There's a reason for that.
Series: 100 Fandoms [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1450570
Comments: 2
Kudos: 5
Collections: Scribblers' 100 Fandoms Challenge, fan_flashworks





	Haunted to be wanted

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the fan_flashworks amnesty, for the prompt _mirror_. Also claimed for the next entry in my 100 fandoms challenge.
> 
> Set in the aftermath of _Avengers Assemble_

Clint woke with a start; his heart pounding, his mouth flooded with a familiar, warm coppery tang and his fingers curled into the bedsheets tight enough to rip. There was no obvious threat, no immediate trigger that would explain his sudden alertness and why he’d _bitten through his own damn tongue_ and he didn’t move for a second, just stared blindly into nothing as he took quick stock. The room was quiet, only the ragged gasps of his own breath breaking through the silence, and the darkness had reached that impenetrable, inky quality that told him just how late (or early, if he wanted to look at it that way) it really was. Everything seemed normal, everything seemed _fine_, except that his muscles were all wound tight, and his jaw ached as though it had been clenched shut for a lot longer than it should have been. 

Nightmare, then.

Clint rolled out of the bed with a groan, scrubbing his fingers through his hair before reaching out to the lamp. The light that flooded the room was soft and subtle, intimately familiar and irritatingly soothing, and he cracked his neck, letting his shoulders drop and feeling some of the tension leech out of them before he padded toward the bathroom. It was more reflex than anything else; habit rather than intent, and _that_ thought grated across his awareness like nails down a chalkboard, setting his teeth on edge.

If this was all becoming habitual, if it was all too achingly familiar, then he had a bigger problem than he’d originally hoped.

The ceramic of the sink was smooth and cool under his fingers and he splashed his face with cold water before he glanced up to meet his own gaze in the mirror. His mouth twisted into a tight, humourless smile as he took stock of his own reflection. It wasn’t a pretty sight; there was a haunted edge to his bloodshot eyes that spoke a little too loudly of things he wasn’t prepared to think about too hard about (or at all, actually) and a haggard draw across his cheeks and his brow that felt almost as though his skin didn’t fit right on his face anymore.

“You’re a fucking mess, Barton,” he said, softly.

“I’m inclined to agree.” Smooth words from a hatefully familiar voice murmured so close that it felt as though they were being whispered straight into his ear were _not_ what he had expected, and Clint whirled on his heel. Putting his back to the sink, he scanned the room, fast and focused, even as he reached behind himself with one hand to check for something, _anything_ he could use as a weapon.

The empty bathroom that met his eyes seemed somehow mocking. 

“I am not there, Agent Barton.”

Clint swore, low and vicious under his breath, and dived for the corner of the room. There was a gun hidden behind the toilet, he was sure of it, and while that might not be his weapon of choice, it would do in a pinch.

This felt like a pinch.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” the tone was scornful, and Clint pressed harder back against the corner wall, the cold tiles digging unforgivably against his shoulder blades. “You know well that your mortal weapons are less than useless here.”

Perhaps true, Clint could acknowledge that, but the weight of the gun felt good in his hand, hefty and reassuring, and he wrapped his fingers a little more tightly around the grip. It was grounding, slowing the jackhammer of his pulse to something more manageable, and he rested it lightly against his thigh as he checked the empty room again warily.

“How about you show yourself and we test that out?” he said, tightly.

“Happily. You will, however, need to cease cowering in the corner like a kicked hound.”

Clint grit his teeth against a mounting tide of frustration-fear swelling in his chest. “Where are you?”

“Look back to the mirror.”

And wasn’t _that_ worryingly cryptic. Clint pursed his lips, but even he could acknowledge his choices were limited. Hiding in a bathroom, limited exits, minimal resources and an unseen, unevaluated adversary. He’d played worse odds, but generally with more information (or, at least, Natasha or Phil in his ear giving him an edge). Tonight, he was on his own.

He pushed himself back to his feet with a roll of his shoulders against the wall that left his hands free and ready, before he edged himself cautiously back toward the sink. Nothing moved, nothing untoward shifted under the harsh bathroom lights, and he hesitated long enough for one final sweep before he turned back around. Slowly, carefully, and with half his focus on the room behind him, he looked up at his own reflection.

The gun slipped from his suddenly nerveless fingers to clatter forgotten to the floor.

His own expression stared back at him, wide-eyed and disbelieving, but that wasn’t what caught and held Clint’s attention. Behind him, over his left shoulder in the mirror (and only in the mirror, as a quick, horrified glance over his shoulder confirmed) was a face he thought he’d left behind outside of his nightmares. Laughing green eyes, devoid of any actual humour, thin lips edged with a cruel smile and a tangle of dark hair. Loki was in his mirror.

Loki was in his _head_, and that alone was enough to have Clint fighting back a rising wave of nausea from deep in his stomach.

Loki in the mirror put a companionable hand on his shoulder, disconcertingly jarring with no corresponding weight on his _real_ shoulder, but Clint jerked against the phantom touch regardless before he could help himself. His reflection didn’t move, blank eyes staring back at him in a way that was both terrifying and repulsive, and Clint switched his focus to Loki. Lesser of two evils and all that, although he wasn’t sure he believed it.

Loki smiled, more a baring of teeth than anything like humour, and Clint ruthlessly forced down the shudder that threatened to wrack through him, ignoring the flutter of panic that spiked in the base of his spine. He would _not_ give the bastard the satisfaction.

“Hello, hawk,” Loki said, smoothly. “I think we are long overdue a conversation, do you not agree?”

Clint didn’t, as it happened; there was a nauseating certainty in his belly that said he didn’t want to hear anything Loki had to say, that, in fact, it might even be dangerous to listen, but he couldn’t see his opinion on the matter making the blindest bit of difference. He couldn’t shoot a spectre, he seriously doubted he had any chance of raising an alarm before he was stopped, and, if he was right, he couldn’t run from something that had taken up residence in his own head.

He was _fucked_.

“Talk then,” he said, brusquely, and he curled his fingers into fists to hide the shake in his hands. Loki’s eyes glittered, watchful and hatefully enthralling, and this time Clint couldn’t fight back his shudder. 

“With pleasure,” Loki murmured.


End file.
